The Plights of Men
by writealot
Summary: AU- It's been 5 years since the BoH & Tom Riddle's imprisonment, but there are whispers of a rising Dark Lord, more fearsome than the last that threatens the security of a hard won peace. Hermione, brightest witch of the age, accepts the Minister's request to interrogate the mind of the one man who would understand this threat best, the previous Dark Lord, Tom Riddle. Eventual HGRL


CHAPTER ONE: Begin

...~oOo~...

Hermione did her best to remain stone-faced through his perusal. But it was leisurely, his eyes lingering over her form, not in a way that was crude like a man finding a woman attractive, but still in a way that made her skin crawl. Pinpricks that matched the trail that his eyes took sparked over her flesh and left behind goosebumps. He knew everything, she could just feel it in the indifferent expression across his features that was only slightly marred by a smirk twitching in the corner of his lips. He knew why she was there. Her intentions. Her every thought. It was all being revealed the longer she allowed him to study. Restlessly, she shifted in her chair, praying that the movement didn't give away how utterly uncomfortable she was. She regretted it instantly when the indifference vanished from his expression and he leaned forward. "Do I make you uneasy, Miss..." He trailed off, expecting her to finish. But all she could hear was the 's' in his last syllable continuing a tad longer than normal, like a snake hissing.

"Granger." She finished for him at last, her jaw twitching in annoyance at the slight breathlessness that accompanied such a simple response. "Hermione Granger." She didn't want to be frightened. She had no reason to be, really. Despite all the horrible things he'd done, the people he'd so ruthlessly killed. Now, standing in front of her, he was wandless, a barrier thick with wards and every protection imaginable stood between them, and she was the brightest witch of the current age. Of a fair few others too. He could not harm her. She swallowed. The hair on the back of her neck stood on end, and she shifted again under his continued gaze. _He could not harm her_.

"Ah. I remember now. You are... the boy's friend. A few years older, perhaps. But the same." His grin, or smirk rather, widened. And he leaned closer, the study of her every movement now more purposeful. "How is he, I wonder? A _hero_, maybe? Do they... _worship_ him? Worship you and... there was a third, wasn't there? The blood traitor?"

Hermione said nothing to this. Turning her head away to glance at the man's file. Because that's all he was. A man. A man imprisoned for heinous crimes, but nothing other than a mortal man. He was not so frightening when she saw his facts and figures written down on paper. Name. Age. Date of birth. Education. Things that would be available about any person, anywhere in the world. But in person, his appearance and very speech made him appear otherworldly, like losing his soul had done exactly as he'd wanted it to and made him immortal. Not human. Thanks to her though, and Harry and Ron. He would die. In this very cell in a few years time. Like any other man was supposed to. A mortal. And therefore, not someone she should fear. "Would that make you jealous?" She asked. Her mouth thinned into a tight line and she looked up again with her back rigid. "Would you prefer to be the one worshiped?"

"Yes," he said without hesitation.

The simplicity of his response surprised her, having expected him to begin some scripted tirade in the usual fashion of villains. Long-winded and tiresome he'd go on about the righteousness of his cause until his voice was hoarse so he finished on a course laugh meant to frighten her with the depths of his insanity.

"Does it bother you then, that he is known as The-Boy-Who-Lived?"

Now it was his turn to say nothing, his serpentine head turning away from her so he could stare once more at the edges of the wards, as though he needed only to learn some kink in the protection and he would be free. She had to remind herself that it was impossible, and calmly take a breath in order to regain control of the pace of her racing heart. He'd lost interest in her utterly, and Hermione winced at her quickness to alienate his previous willingness to speak with her.

"I see no point in repeating questions you already know the answer to."

Hermione jumped. She'd turned away as he had, expecting that she had ruined her chances by angering him. Only now he was speaking again. Staring at her with those dark red and terrifying eyes which stood stark against translucently pale skin. "Sorry." She quickly replied, out of habit then nearly snapped her quill in half with the annoyance that surged through her. Sorry? _Sorry_? Had she really just apologized to this disgus-

His expression made her pause in the silent rebuke of her stupidity that she had burst into inside her head. He looked... amused. As if he knew precisely what she was thinking. And perhaps he did. Now furious with herself, it took quite a bit for her to not stand in a huff and leave in embarrassment. She would have to be better from now on. This was a game of skill, a match against minds. She couldn't allow him to take hold of her, to burrow beneath her skin and manipulate her. She could be the only one in control. Otherwise she risked herself.

Taking a deep breath, Hermione went back to the papers neatly stacked in her lap, unfolding the newspaper Kingsley had given her without looking up at him. She looked it up and down, taking her time, increasing his curiosity, regaining control of their interaction before finally turning it towards his cell for him to read. He barely looked at it, then a long spidery finger lifted from his dark robes, beckoning her to come closer. The idea of making the space between them any smaller repulsed her, but she stretched her arm out as far as she could then leaned forward slightly, straining her neck away in slight protest.

The title on the front page of the newspaper was in large bold letter, "FAMILY FOUND DEAD" and the picture below was a familiar one in the Wizarding World these days. It was a house, ordinary enough, but above it hung the Dark Mark, or what was recognizable as a Dark Mark, although it had been altered. Rather than being painted in green it was in a dark shade of red, the image burned into it was of a slightly smaller skull and a larger snake than its original, and the reptile was wrapped around the skull many times so as to obscure one of the sunken in eyes. One side of the bone was caved in, as though the snake had crushed it with its strength and from the bottom of the glow, a steady drip was falling down into the yard of the house. Blood, is what it looked like. Beside the gruesome image was a family picture, two smiling adults with three school age children around them. They all were waving, the mother sometimes would turn her head to kiss her husband's cheek or one of the children would flick the other's ear playfully. It was heartbreakingly ordinary and Hermione hated to look at it even more than the image of the house and Dark Mark because she could just picture them in life. Whole and young and loving.

Hermione showed this to the man inside the cell, now studying him minutely, her eyes locked onto his expression looking for any hint at his emotions to the image. And she found it. A flash of annoyance burned behind his eyes as he read the first few words of the article and took in the "copycat" of his life's work. His eyes unsurprisingly breezed over the image of the family, taking in the Dark Mark, noting the similarities and differences as though they mocked him personally. But the next moment he was still and he leaned back as though disinterested again.

"How contrived, Miss Granger. Is that really the reason you wasted your time in coming here? To show me this?"

Her eyes stayed on him, unperturbed by his dismissal, because she knew better. This man, a proud man who had worked so hard for the people's fear, would not be able to stand just any half-wit swooping in and taking up where he'd left off. No. Not Tom Riddle. And that was where she hoped to grab him, to manipulate him into helping her. She would work on a madman's pride."Does it not interest you at all? Do you not wish to know who is trying to take up your mantle?"

There was another flash, she swore she saw it flicker even deeper into the very lines of his features. Hatred. For her or for this copycat, she was unsure. But it was the emotion she needed, the slip that she could play with, "Why would I?" and his words were a hiss, his eyes narrowing in annoyance, the upper lip curling in a sneer.

Ah. Hermione matched his body language, casually leaning back in her chair, her hands gently folded the newspaper neatly into a square so she could relax her hands into her lap. Her face was serene, although the slight hint of mocking hedged into her voice, a jab to push him exactly where she needed him to be. "Because _someone_ is replacing you, Tom."

...~oOo~...


End file.
